Fame (33 page)

Abel shook his head. ‘I want to go home,’ he said morosely. ‘I want to say goodbye to him.’

‘Oh, darling.’ Tish looked at her watch. It was already almost four. An unpleasant feeling of nervous tension crept over her. Were they too late? ‘I think Viorel will have left for the airport by now. You said goodbye to him this morning, remember?’

Abel looked crestfallen.

‘Cheer up, chicken. He promised he’d write to you, didn’t he? And call, when we’re back home in Oradea. Who knows, he might even come out and visit.’

‘He won’t,’ said Abel, bitterly. ‘He hates Romania. I hate Romania, too.’

‘Abi.’ Tish looked pained. ‘Don’t say that, darling. That’s not true.’

‘It is,’ said Abel. ‘I want to stay at Loxley forever. Why can’t Uncle Jago go away again? Why does
he
get to stay there and we don’t? Everyone I don’t like is staying, and everyone I do like is going, and it’s ALL YOUR FAULT!’

He burst into tears. To her shame, Tish found she was close to tears herself. Though she didn’t want to admit it, the idea that she might never see Viorel again was almost as painful to her as it was to Abel.

She hesitated for a moment, not sure what to do. Then she put the jacket back on its hanger and took him by the hand.

‘Come on,’ she said gently. ‘Let’s see if we can catch him.’

‘So I’ll see you on the fifteenth.’ Dorian stood on the gravel drive outside Loxley’s grand front door, watching Viorel load cases into the boot of his car. It was a warm day and both men were in shorts. Pairing his with a checked Abercrombie shirt and Oliver Peoples aviators, Vio looked as if he were already in California.

‘Absolutely. I’ll be there. I appreciate you giving me the time.’

‘Just make sure you get some rest in LA. Smoke some joints, get laid, do whatever you gotta do, but I want to see you in Romania refreshed and relaxed. No more yelling at my extras.’

‘Yes, boss,’ said Vio. Watching Dorian walk back towards the set he felt a pang of guilt. Rasmirez was a good guy, a better guy than he was.

Viorel had hated saying goodbye to Abel this morning, and his difficult interview with Tish last night had to rank as one of the least enjoyable five minutes of his life. Sabrina had pointedly not bothered to come and see him off, but he didn’t really care. Now that he was finally packed and ready to go, he felt enormous relief. He needed an injection of reality, away from Sabrina and Jago, away from Dorian, whose kindness and good humour were starting to make him feel seriously uncomfortable. He was dreading the last few weeks of filming in Romania. Being in his ‘home’ country, seeing Chrissie again, living under Dorian’s roof, it couldn’t help but be a strain. But it
was
only a few weeks.

After that I’ll be back in LA for good, five and a half million dollars richer and with enough beautiful girls on tap to push Loxley Hall and Tish Crewe and Sabrina Leon out of my head for good.

It was always like this on location, Vio reminded himself. Your world shrank to become one place, one small, incestuous group of people. One woman.
Two women?
No wonder his head was a mess.

A loud beeping made him look up. It was Tish, driving at a hundred miles an hour, leaning on the horn and spraying gravel everywhere as she skidded to a halt in front of him. Despite himself, Viorel thought how sexy she looked when she was flustered, with her face flushed and strands of hair flying everywhere. Before she’d even turned the engine off, Abi was out of the car, sleek black head down, arms and legs pumping, running into Viorel’s arms and clinging on to him like a monkey.

‘Don’t go!’ he sobbed, burying his head in Vio’s open-shirted chest.

Vio bit his lip. ‘I have to go, mate,’ he said, hugging the child tightly. Before this movie, he’d never thought of himself as remotely paternal. Now he wondered how on earth he was going to cope having his own kids, if it felt this terrible to be leaving someone else’s. ‘We’ll see each other again, though. I promise.’

‘When?’ wailed Abel. Tish had got out of the car and walked around to join them. Viorel tried to read her face. There was pain in it for sure. But was she upset because her son was upset or because he was leaving?

‘I don’t know exactly,’ Vio said to Abel, floundering. ‘Soon, I hope. I’ll have to ask your mother.’

‘Mummy likes you,’ announced Abel out of nowhere, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. ‘She acts like she doesn’t, but she does.’

Viorel raised an eyebrow, but didn’t dare look at Tish. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ said Abel. ‘Even though you’re extremely irri …’ He frowned, trying to remember the word Tish had used.

‘Irritating?’ offered Viorel.

‘No, not that.’

‘Irresistible?’ Vio tried hopefully.

‘Abel,’ Tish did her best to sound authoritative, not easy with her heart beating nineteen to the dozen. ‘Viorel needs to catch his plane.’

‘I know!’ Abel grinned as it came back to him. ‘
Irresponsible!
Even though you’re extremely irresponsible, my mum does actually like you. So please come and visit us.’

Viorel looked at Tish. If ever there were a chance for them to patch up their quarrel and part as friends, this was it. But both of them were too stubborn to make the first move. Tish gave the briefest of nods and said, ‘Of course. You’re always welcome.’

‘See? And when you come you can sleep in my mum’s bed,’ said Abel brightly.

Tish went puce. ‘
Abi!
Really, darling, you mustn’t say things like that.’

‘Why not?’ asked Abel. ‘You’ve got a big bed. There’s a space in it. He can sleep next to you.’

Viorel grinned. Tish’s blushes had always been one of her most endearing habits. ‘We’ll work it out,’ he said to Abel. ‘Now, I really have to go, kiddo, or I’m gonna miss my plane. I’ll call you from America. After your bedtime, so you’ll have to stay up late. That’s how we irresponsible grown-ups roll.’ Setting Abel down, he got into the car. Watching him go, Tish was mortified by how terrible she felt, how empty. But she pushed the feelings aside.

‘Wait!’

Sabrina, still in costume from an earlier scene, came running down the hill from the set with skirts billowing, holding onto her bonnet like Scarlett O’Hara racing to see Ashley off to war. Above the boned bodice of the dress, her breasts jiggled precariously, as if they might be about to break for freedom at any moment, and her glorious long dark hair streamed behind her like the tail of some dark comet.

‘Wait for me!’ She arrived at the car panting, looking as flushed and wanton and desirable as Viorel had ever seen her. She was also smiling broadly, and seemed thrilled to have caught him before he left.
And I’m only going for a week
, he thought, smugly.
She does care after all.
Somehow it was doubly gratifying to receive Sabrina’s unexpected show of affection in front of Tish.

‘Sorry, angel,’ he said suavely, kissing her on the cheek. ‘It was nice of you to come and see me off but I’ve really gotta fly.’

‘Oh, that’s OK,’ said Sabrina. ‘I actually wanted to show all of you.’ Letting go of her bonnet, she held out her left hand, beaming with pride. On her fourth finger, a diamond the size of a small frog glinted dazzlingly in the sunshine.

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ she panted, looking triumphantly from Viorel to Tish. ‘Jago proposed to me this morning. We’re getting married!’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘Viorel, over here!’

‘Vio, Vio, this way!’

‘Is it good to be home, Mr Hudson?’

‘Very good, thank you.’ Viorel pushed his way through the throng of paparazzi and staring tourists that stood between him and the restaurant. The Malibu Country Mart was a well-known pap-trap, but Vio never really minded being photographed. In fact, after weeks stuck in England, it felt good to be back in the game. Besides, today was
definitely
a day for a little lazy lunch at the beach. For the first time in months, he’d woken up in his own bed in Venice and to the sort of Saturday morning that only Los Angeles ever really seemed to be able to conjure up: sunny, cloudless and blue skied, with a gentle breeze taking the edge off the eighty-plus-degree heat, and a palpable sense of energy and possibility in the air.

Carlos from the Bugatti dealership had delivered his beloved Veyron back to the apartment so, after a leisurely breakfast on the terrace gazing out over the Pacific, Vio had taken it for a spin, shooting down the coast almost as far as La Jolla before turning around and flooring it back up Pacific Coast Highway all the way to Malibu, feeling like Tom Cruise in
Jerry Maguire.

This is good
, he thought, feeling the engine’s immense power at his fingertips, drinking in the sunshine and the acacia trees and the majesty of the swaying palms that lined the familiar streets.
This is where I belong.
Speeding along the magnificent, winding coast road, he could almost believe that the past summer had been a dream. All of it: Tish and Abel, Dorian and Chrissie, Sabrina and the ludicrous Jago Crewe.

Although he’d been careful not to show it when he left Loxley yesterday, Sabrina’s shock engagement had annoyed him more than he cared to admit. All the way to the airport, he’d found himself wrestling with an anger that made no sense when he analysed it rationally.
Sabrina wanted me
, he told himself.
I was the one who said no to her. So I can hardly bitch about her finding somebody else.
But marriage? To Jago?

He realized it was embarrassingly egocentric, but ever since Sabrina had got together with Tish’s brother, Viorel had convinced himself it was a ploy to make him jealous. Not an entirely unsuccessful ploy, but a ploy nonetheless. But no one got
married
to someone just for the attention, not even Sabrina. The idea that she might actually be in love with Jago; that she honestly, genuinely
preferred
Jago to him, shook Viorel’s ego profoundly.

Happily, waking up in LA had turned out to be exactly the tonic he needed.
Fuck Sabrina Leon. Fuck Tish Crewe. Fuck the lot of them.
Loxley’s on-set politics wasn’t real life.
This
was.

Sidestepping the last of the persistent photographers, he made his way into Tony’s Taverna. Instantly, every female head turned to look at him. Vio felt his confidence returning like the tide.

‘Mr Hudson.’ The maître d’ approached him, smiling warmly. ‘It’s been a long time, my friend. Your usual table?’

‘Thank you, Carlos.’

Vio sat down and took off his sunglasses. The food at Tony’s hadn’t changed in ten years, and he always had the same thing anyway – tiger shrimp salad washed down with an ice-cold glass of retsina – but he reached for the menu on autopilot. As he lifted the stiff, white card, an exquisite blonde at the bar turned and made eye contact. Vio smiled and mouthed
Hi.
In white cotton hot pants and a tie-dyed vest, her long, tanned legs dangling from the bar stool like two sticks of toffee, she was a little bit generically Californian, but nonetheless sexy for that. He was about to go over and introduce himself – she was bound to know who he was, but to assume that she did might make him look like an asshole – when he suddenly stopped. A small boy with jet-black hair came running out of the bathroom and wrapped himself around one of the toffee legs. ‘Mommy, Mommy, guess what they have in the boys’ room?’ he breathed excitedly. ‘Magic faucets! You put your hands underneath, and the water shoots out by magic!’

The girl smiled and bent down to respond to him, but Vio was no longer interested in her. It was the boy. From behind, he looked so like Abi, it was uncanny. All of a sudden a dark cloud descended. The good mood Viorel had so carefully cultivated all morning was gone in a flash, like a candle flame snuffed out in the breeze. In its place, all the churning emotions of yesterday returned: anger, anxiety, unease, guilt. He missed Abel. But it wasn’t just the boy. It was Abi’s mother, too. He’d never had a real friend before. Tish was the first and he’d blown it spectacularly. He pictured her now as he’d last seen her, driving like a bat out of hell through the gates at Loxley, her cheeks flushed and her hair flying everywhere. Objectively, she wasn’t nearly as beautiful as the girl at the bar. But Viorel seemed to have lost his objectivity somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, at least as far as Tish Crewe was concerned.

‘May I bring you something to drink, sir?’

A pretty brunette waitress was hovering at Viorel’s table. Her cleavage was right at his eye level, but he barely looked up.

‘Yes. No.’ He frowned, irritated at himself. Two minutes ago he’d known exactly what he wanted. Now, whatever he ordered he knew it would be a glass half empty.

‘I’ll leave you to think about it,’ said the girl, smiling sweetly. ‘No rush.’

Ah, but there is a rush
, thought Viorel.
I want my life back.
He was sick of feeling guilty all the time. His mother had often made him feel like that as a child – inadequate, lesser, disappointing. Tish Crewe seemed to have the same ability, to shame him with a look or a word, to make him feel like a naughty schoolboy when by rights he ought to be feeling like the King of the World. Landing the role of Heathcliff had been the biggest break of Viorel’s career. Even if the film bombed, he would wind up a rich man.
So why aren’t I happy?

‘Excuse me,’ he called after the brunette. ‘I’ll have a retsina, please.’

She nodded. ‘One glass of retsina coming up.’

‘You know what?’ said Vio grimly. ‘Make it a bottle.’

He turned to look at the yummy mummy and her son, but they were gone.

‘For God’s sake, Jago. You can’t!’

Tish closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her temples, counting slowly backwards from ten. She was in the kitchen, leaning back against the cool enamel of the switched-off Aga, and her head was pounding with a tension-induced headache that was starting to feel like a brain tumour. Jago was sprawled out in the armchair at the back of the room, with Sabrina coiled in his lap like a beautiful snake.
Beautiful and deadly
, thought Tish.
That girl is pure poison.